Recently my husband and I installed a geothermal heating and cooling system for our home, and the decision to do so elicited in me somewhat of a panic. As the day for the drilling drew nearer, I began to realize that once the trucks started backing in and the drills began droning, forcing their way into two-hundred feet of quiet, dark earth, that I would be stuck here, in my home, for many more years to come. In short, those drills (and the money it took to get them in my backyard) represented two hundred feet of steel anchor situating us here—we were officially connected to a place—we had committed for the long haul.

Whenever a door of possibility slams shut, I get tense, which is not a good habit. The negation of an option feels a little bit like a wall has been erected somewhere close-by, limiting my mobility and freedom. Though it can easily drive me bonkers, I’m pretty skilled and living in-between decisions—in the realm of “infinite possibility.” I often feel like I can see countless alternate realities super-imposed upon one another, hovering just above my present life… and though all I need do is just pluck one of these many possibilities from out of the air, and allow all the rest to fade out of (potential) existence like dissolving apparitions, I continue wait, and decide nothing final. Choosing often scares me (when we’re talking big decisions), and so I let the possibilities continue to tumble over me like a sea, which is why living in-between isn’t wise—one can quickly lose footing on the present and get lost in dreaming, wondering if…if…if maybe only…perhaps if…?

We’ve only lived in our current house for about a year and a half now, but in that short amount of time we’ve managed to put a lot of time, care, sweat, and money into it; though by way of money, it’s had to be on a borrowed dime and a used shoelace. How we managed to convince ourselves of buying a geothermal system might actually be beyond the ability of most people to understand, then, given the modesty of our situation, but this was fundamentally important to our ideals (in-efficient buildings, especially residential homes, are far more damaging to the environment pollution and resource-wise than cars), and the numbers miraculously worked out (we had already been paying an arm and a leg for heating and cooling—our air conditioner and furnace were neolithic beasts). My husband had been dreaming and obsessing about the virtues and practicalities of geothermal, and I had been teaching my students the “evils” of carbon emissions for a few years—it seemed we had to act on the opportunity to live out our promise of good environmental stewardship.

But, this all as it may be, I was nevertheless plunged into doubt about whether our home was the “right” one to be financially committing ourselves to—was this the right living arrangement for us long term? Sure, when we bought it I loved it, but did I intend to be here forever? Wasn’t this an in-between home? It only has two bedrooms on the main floor, so what happens if we have another child? (I guess we could always “bump up” the attic and build a dormer). And while the kitchen appeals to me now, what about in 10 years? (But maybe we could get new cabinets). What if my neighbors move out and total hooligans move in next door? And I want a dog someday—we don’t have a big enough yard for that, and I can hardly fence it in. There’s no garage, and we probably can’t build one either—will I really be scraping snow and ice off my car for the next twenty years? (oh, poor me!)

And then…what if we can’t make all these changes? Wouldn’t it just be easier to move to a house that’s better suited to our needs for the next few decades—one that has a bigger yard and more windows and more social clout (and so on and so forth)? [This is the point at which I was underneath the waves—possibilities and indecision and just plain fear bowling me over and washing me out. And I was starting to feel a little bit of despair, because I worried we were creating a cage for ourselves—or at least for me. My husband could be happy in a 500 sq. ft. shack with no plumbing (no kidding), so the worry was really mine alone.] I was left wondering whether my compulsive worries were based more on sound logic or upon fearful reactions to the idea of committing to one place, and to a particular kind of life.

In his essay “Homeplace,” Scott Russell Sanders examines in some depth this problem I was dealing with: whether it’s better to be free to move about in order to improve our safety, comfort, and status—going when the impulse strikes and the winds of change begin to blow through the window; or, whether it is better to stay put and make the best of what you’ve already got. When the going gets tough, or maybe just plain boring, do we move on to new territory? Or do we reinvest in our relationship with the place we’re already in? This is a pretty basic tension in American life, for on the one hand, the “virtues of moving on are familiar and seductive, […our] nation founded by immigrants and shaped by restless seekers. From the beginning,” writes Sanders, “our heroes have been sailors, explorers, cowboys, prospectors, speculators, backwoods ramblers, rainbow chasers, vagabonds of every stripe. Our Promised Land has always been on the next ridge or at the end of the trail,” but “never under our feet.” Most of us have grown up believing that “movement is inherently good” and that staying in one place breeds intolerance, ignorance, and perhaps a kind of stagnation that leads to depression and the death of creativity, or, that most prized of American attributes: invention. Most of the people I know move frequently; in fact, until recently, we couldn’t keep close friends for more than three years at a time. We still don’t have many friends our age because our age-group is just plain transient; so, we decided to find more “stable” friends who have several years on us and who are willing to stick around for a while.

Which leads me to the reasons why my husband and I decided to stick around ourselves, and buy this house in the first place: we wanted to commit to our friends and be part of a community, we wanted to be part of progressive neighborhood, and live in a diverse area. By the end of the first month in our new home, we knew the first names of well over half of our neighbors, and by the end of the first six months had established good relationships or friendships with several families within a two-block radius. There is a vibrant community garden a few blocks down the street where we keep a garden plot for our family. Every Saturday in the summer we walk down there for a Children’s Gardening program and learn about growing food, or about insects, birds, weather, or ecology with our daughter. Our neighborhood is situated in the middle of town so we can walk or bike to many places we like to frequent. And, it’s a good neighborhood to live in if you like to know the people who live nearby. (Sounds good. So what’s my deal?)

Well, after much work discerning the root of my anxiety, I decided the real problem was basically that which Sanders had so eloquently laid out: I was (and am) torn by two opposing ideas about happiness in American culture, and I wasn’t entirely sure which idea best suited me—to stay put or to stay mobile. The narrative of travel and mobility is an attractive one—it appeals to my inner artist who needs freedom, newness, and continuous creative inspiration. However, the environmentalist in me thinks much of the harm that is done to our world and to each other arises from our cultural inability, at times, to commit to a place, a person, or an ideal, and to grow in intimacy with it/them. Intimacy is what makes us care about what happens to places, people, and ideals—we care because they really matter to us personally. As I began discerning this issue more deeply, I began to feel that the real cage and constriction in my life was fear, and a compulsive perfectionism (there’s always something better just ahead…); but really, I know life is what we make of it.

Just about any place can be a good place, provided we commit to making it so, individually and communally. I learned this when I lived in Ireland for three months while I was in college. I decided to follow the inner artist in this instance, and traveled there to attend art school for a semester. The landscape, topography, geographical location, sights, sounds, smells, the precise quality of the light—was absolutely perfect. I knew with every atom of my being that this place was an external representation of my interior longing. We were a perfect fit, me and Ireland. But, the love affair began to grow somewhat desperate as my desire to share this perfection with family and a loved one intensified. While I had found a place that held profound meaning for me personally, there was no community to make it a real home for me. This was a hard realization to stomach, but it’s stuck with me.

So as I began to reconsider where the joys are in my life now, my anxieties began to hush themselves. Family, friends, and a strong sense of community—these are what my heart finds meaning in, but they require that I stay put and invest myself in one place, and commit to the people I love. Rather than seeing those deep geothermal wells in the backyard as anchors in a negative sense, I choose now to see them as an umbilical chord and taproot—from them I intend to ground myself, grow deep roots  and identity here, branch out, and hopefully, produce some good fruit and create my own kind of Promised Land. And it’s this thought really sets me free.

Photo: “roots” by Hanssolo from Flickr (Used under Creative Commons license)

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